Reactions
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Sequel to Dailenna's "The Mangaka Has Her Reasons." What would everyone's reactions be to the news that Roy and Riza Mustang are dead? How many lives have they touched that will be completely different from now on? No yaoi, just so you know.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist or "The Mangaka Has Her Reasons" in any way, shape, or form. They belong, respectively, to Hiromu Arakawa and Dailenna.**

**Author's Note: This is a sequel, of sorts, to "The Mangaka Has Her Reasons," by Dailenna (please read that before reading my fic). I am not attempting in any way to match the emotion or skill with which she wrote her truly amazing little fic, and I realize and admit that this is a sorry attempt at a sequel. I hope that this little exploration into the reactions of various characters to the news of the events in Dai's fic will at least be a testament to how much I am inspired by her writing. To date, this is the only fanfiction I've ever written of another person's fanfiction, if that makes any sense at all. I hope you'll enjoy this despite its shortcomings!**

**Dedication: For Dailenna Llewellyn Stuart, a constant inspiration and ever-present friend. Though we only met a little over a year ago, I already feel as though I've known you for years and years. Happy Birthday, and I hope we will remain friends for many years to come!**

"Brother! Brother!"

Ed looked up in surprise to see his large metal brother running over to him with clunking footsteps. He immediately set the alchemy book he had been reading down on the table, for Al's glowing eyes were wide with panic. Ed quickly stood up. "Al, what's the matter?" he asked in concern, his mind instantly flitting to possible causes for Al's fright – the Homunculi, Scar, or maybe Major Armstrong.

Al skidded to a halt and gripped his older brother's shoulders very hard. "Brother..." he squeaked out, apparently at a loss for words.

Ed touched one of his little brother's gauntlet hands. "What is it, Al? You have to tell me, or I can't help you!"

To his surprise, Al slowly let go of Ed and slid down onto the floor, head bowed and arms limp. "Colonel Mustang..." he whispered.

Ed heaved a sigh and squatted down in front of Al. "What's that idiot done now? Isn't he supposed to be on his honeymoon?"

Al's voice sounded very small in the pit of his armor. "Brother, he's...he's dead."

Ed nearly fell over backwards, catching himself in time to sit down hard on the floor instead. "Wh-Wha...?" He found he could only manage a harsh whisper, and wet his lips with his tongue to try again. "What are you talking about?" he finally croaked out.

"Mr. Hughes...told me."

Before he really knew what he was doing, Ed was on his feet and racing out of the hotel lobby where he had been sitting. He zipped out the door and raced towards the main building of the Central Military Headquarters, dodging in front of cars that swerved to avoid him. Before he was even halfway there, he was gasping for breath. A cold void grew ever larger inside his stomach, threatening to close over his head and swallow him whole. He forced himself to concentrate on his feet pounding along the sidewalk, on his steady gasps and the rhythmic beating of his heart, instead of...

Ed ignored the people he passed as he raced through the white-walled hallways of the Military Headquarters. He didn't hear the protests, or notice the papers he knocked out of people's hands. He paid no heed to anything around him; he was bound for one destination only. Skidding around a corner, he came to the last flight of stairs, which he took three at a time, and tore down the next hallway as though the entire army was after him. Finally, he burst into Colonel Mustang's office like a small red explosion, and stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. He stared straight ahead, at the desk where Colonel Mustang always used to sit, reclining in his chair and surrounded by piles of paperwork.

But the Colonel had left about a week ago for his honeymoon, and Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes had taken over. Hughes sat behind that desk now, head in hands, gripping his black hair as though that alone would save him. He didn't even look up when Ed entered.

"Lieutenant-Colonel," Ed panted when he had managed to catch his breath somewhat. "Is it true?"

Hughes only moved to push a sheaf of papers forward on the desk.

Ed warily moved forward and reached for the papers. His hand paused, hovering over the papers as though reluctant to confirm his fears. But then his fingers closed the distance and picked up the papers, automatically bringing them up before his eyes. Ed forced himself to read the stark black words typed so emotionlessly onto the agonizingly white paper, but when he was halfway through he closed his eyes. He couldn't read any more. Gritting his teeth, he put the papers back on the table and sank numbly into a nearby chair.

Presently, he realized he was sitting at Lieutenant Hawkeye's desk. Everything was in perfect order – much the opposite from the tangle of papers, folders, ballpoint pens, and torn envelopes that dominated Colonel Mustang's desk. On Hawkeye's desk, there was a pad of paper, a pen, and a small vase of flowers. For some reason, Ed found himself staring at this little, neat arrangement, his mind wandering. _A desk can say so much about a person._

For a long time, Ed and Hughes sat like that in the Colonel's office, neither of them moving or saying a word. After a few minutes, Ed's mind had registered the news enough for him to utter a string of curses under his breath. "What-" he uttered a few more foul names "-would believe that?"

"No one who knew him," Hughes answered dully.

Ed looked up and saw that Hughes had lifted his head a little, resting his chin on his fists instead. His eyes looked a little red behind his squarish glasses. Ed gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, telling himself over and over that he would not let his own eyes become that red. But he was fighting a losing battle.

* * *

The main reaction Hughes got when he told people what had happened was one of surprise. Havoc's cigarette dropped from his lips to burn out, unnoticed, on the floor. Fury dropped the pile of books he had been carrying, and didn't even bother to pick them up. Falman had to sit down hastily, his face paper-white. When Hughes approached Major Armstrong in the hallway, the large man called out jovially, "How is Colonel Mustang? I suppose you haven't heard from him yet. Ah, love! Doesn't it just make your heart soar?" But when Hughes told him in a low voice what had happened, the sparklingly-cheerful aura surrounding the broad-shouldered man seemed to crash to the floor. Armstrong's face became frozen, and tears sparkled in his eyes. Hughes managed to escape before Armstrong could pull him into a bone-cracking embrace, but he couldn't get Armstrong's stricken face out of his mind.

Perhaps the reaction he had been fearing the most was that of his own wife. When he came home, he tried to act his normal, cheerful self, but Gracia saw through it in an instant. She gave him a look before going off to put Elysia to bed, and Hughes took that to mean she wanted a full explanation when she came back. Sighing, he sank onto the sofa and stared blindly at the family portrait that hung on the wall opposite.

He dreaded having to tell Gracia, dreaded the look that would surely enter her compassionate eyes. It almost seemed that each time he told someone what had happened, the truth became more solid. He couldn't run away from it anymore, as he had tried to at first. The more people he told the contents of the report, the more he believed it himself. At first he had forced himself to believe it was some mistake, some horrible misunderstanding, that the conclusion his mind had automatically leapt to was wrong. But the more he looked at it, and the more he spoke of it with others, the more he saw the awful truth of the situation.

Hughes felt a soft hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" Gracia whispered.

Somehow, her soft, concerned voice made tears spring to his eyes. Maybe his mind made the connection between his relationship to Gracia and Colonel Mustang's to his new wife. Perhaps he subconsciously imagined what it would be like if Gracia died, or maybe her question had simply brought up all the pain he had been trying to bottle up inside of him all day.

Whatever was the case, Hughes found tears building up in his eyes, and he dared not blink for fear they would fall and he would never be able to stop them. Instead, he grasped Gracia's hand on his shoulder and whispered, "I'm scared, Gracia."

"Scared of what?"

"The truth." He ventured a glance up at her face and saw that she looked confused but willing to listen. "I received a report of two deaths today," he said in a heavy voice. "They were a married couple on their honeymoon. According to the report, it seems the man killed his wife and then committed suicide."

"How horrible!"

Hughes swallowed, and it was several moments before he could find his voice again. "The report confirmed that the couple were the newly-married...Mr. and Mrs..." He fought to keep his voice under control, to hold back his tears, but finally he gave up and buried his face in his hands. "Roy Mustang!"

Gracia gasped, and Hughes could feel her hand jerking away from his shoulder. He pressed his hands against his eyes, but they couldn't keep tears from forming in his eyes and somehow leaking out. Sobs he tried to silence shook his body like invisible, desperate hands. He couldn't stop thinking about the friend he had lost. His mind viciously reminded him that he would never be able to joke with his best friend again, never annoy him with photos, never fight by his side. Now he could never urge Roy Mustang to have four children (as he had been planning to do as soon as the Mustangs returned to Central). And he would never see Colonel Mustang rise through the ranks of the military until he became the Fuhrer. But what Hughes thought he would miss most of all was simply Roy Mustang's face: the artfully-unkempt black hair, the determined dark eyes, the confident smile. He would miss the strong soldier's hands filled with the grace of an alchemist. He would miss the voice that would sigh all through Hughes's boasting monologues about his family, and finally threaten to burn him to cinders.

"But...there must be some kind of mistake!" Gracia sounded stunned and surprised, just as everyone else had when he told them.

And suddenly Hughes felt rage bubble up inside him. He wasn't sure why Gracia's words had caused it, but when she repeated herself, he found himself on his feet and shouting at her. "There is no mistake! They're gone; don't you understand?! They're gone, and they're not coming back! So stop sitting there, staring at me like an idiot, and accept it!" He turned around to storm out of the room and banged his leg against the coffee table. Cursing with pain and anger, he kicked the table across the room and left, slamming the door behind him.

For several long minutes, Gracia simply sat there, staring after him with tears in her eyes. At long last, however, she slowly got to her feet and bent to pick up the coffee table, and after a moment's hesitation followed her husband out into the garden.

* * *

Gracia found her husband high up in the branches of a tree, fiddling about with what looked like rope. When she stood under him, looking up and wondering if it would be all right to speak, he glanced down at her and said roughly, "I'm putting up a swing for Elysia. A surprise."

"I know she'll like it," Gracia said softly, watching him tie the rope around a stout bough of the tree.

When he had finished tying a strong knot, Hughes stopped, his face hidden by the shadows of leaves. "I'd hoped that one day their children would play with our Elysia." He didn't need to say who 'they' were.

"Maes..."

Hughes dropped down out of the tree and stepped reluctantly over to her. "I'm...sorry, Gracia. I shouldn't have been angry with you."

Gracia took his hand in her own. "I understand. You get angry when you're frightened."

His hand closed around her own so tightly that it hurt. "I don't want to believe it's true. I don't want to believe my best friend would..."

"You know he wouldn't," she replied gently. "All you have to do is convince others that he didn't as well. It's what you do best, isn't it? Investigation?"

Hughes released her hand and put his arm around her shoulders instead, slowly leading her back inside. "What I do best is telling everyone how wonderful Elysia is."

They both laughed, and Hughes felt somewhat better. There was still a gaping hole in his heart where Roy and Riza Mustang had once been, and there probably always would be, but it was good to remember what his dear friend was really like. If he reminded himself of this throughout the investigation, perhaps that would lead him to the real murderer.


End file.
